


Last Night Pete

by mokuyoubi



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, What did I do last night trope, background Harry Osborn/Mary Jane Watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27210787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: Peter's bachelor party for Harry gets hijacked by Mister Stark, and the gang wakes up the next morning with no memory of what happened. Only Harry's wedding bands are missing, and Peter has half of a marriage certificate with his name on it. But that's okay, because you can't get married overnight in NYC...right?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 55
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started as a Spideypool Bingo Prompt fill for Sister Margaret's, and might still be once it is completed...or it might end up being for my free space/accidental marriage, but it sort of got away from me. I will be updating probably every few days until it is finished, as it is very close to being done. The rating may change, but at this time I don't plan on it going any higher. We'll see where the boys take me.
> 
> Title comes from the Psych episode "Last Night Gus," which is probably my favourite episode of television ever made, and a great inspiration for this fic.

“How the hell’d you manage to get this place?” Ned asked.

MJ gave him the side-eye. “Two words: Tony Stark.”

“No!” Peter exclaimed. Not that it wasn’t a fair assumption, but he’d worked his ass off to get access to this bar tonight. “I maybe owe two different co-workers tours of the Avengers compound, and promised Jameson Junior to do his wedding photos for free.” Never mind what he’d had to do to get their dinner reservations. “But look at this place!”

Peter made a turn in the centre of the bar, gesturing to the walls of windows on three sides, open to the balcony and beyond that, the skyline. Plush black leather sofas and coffee tables with flickering orange candlelight. The wall behind the bar backlit in electric yellow and blue. 

The host strode up to meet them with a smile fixed on his face as he took the three of them in head to toe. His nametag read _Jaxon_. “You must be the ones JJ told me about. Come with me.”

“That’s us. Me,” Peter said, with an eager grin. They followed Jaxon, where a lap pool ringed in neon was surrounded by hanging wicker seats and firepits. “I’m hosting my friend Harry’s bachelor party.”

Jaxon made a humming sound. “A night to be remembered, I’m sure.” 

The table was laid out in a full bottle service. The cranberry juice and tonic sweating in the early evening air. A bottle of Ketel One and another of Patron. Definitely not up to Harry’s standards, but it was what Peter could afford, and he wanted to foot at least some of the bill for the night’s festivities, even if Harry did end up buying later rounds.

MJ pursed her lips, looking supremely unimpressed by their surroundings. “Yeah, it’s not every day Harry Osborn gets married.”

A little glimmer came into the host’s eyes. “Harry Osborn?” he said. “ _The_ Harry Osborn.” MJ just raised both brows, and suddenly Jaxon was scrambling off.

Moments later, he was back with a handful of others, sweeping away the other bottles and replacing them with a bottle of 1942 Don Julio, an 18 year old scotch, and some vodka that was apparently so special it didn’t even have a label. 

As they were laying them out, Harry and Flash strode in, along with two of Harry’s rich college buddies, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. They looked far more like the clientele that frequented the place with the simple elegance they exuded, in their tailored suits. Jaxon and his gaggle of waitstaff parted like the red sea.

Bentley tilted his head down to look over his sunglasses at the spread. “Peter, I gotta say, I’m impressed. I was half expecting happy hour at Applebee’s.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder as he passed, opening the scotch and pouring a generous amount in one of the waiting tumblers.

Harry greeted Peter with a hug. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said in a low voice. “Applebee’s wings are pretty dope.”

Peter relaxed and gave Harry a squeeze. “I’m your best man--I couldn’t let you down.”

“Are you ready to go through your heteronormative ritual, perpetuating antiquated notions of women as property whose only value is in the degree to which they are appropriately decorative and their sexual purity?”

“Michelle!” Harry greeted, grabbing at the bottle of vodka from which she was taking intermittent swigs. “Why are you even here?”

MJ danced away and flipped him the bird. “Free alcohol,” she said. “Also, someone has to take the blackmail photos.”

“Very funny,” Flash commented. MJ just made eye-contact while taking another swig from the bottle. “She’s joking,” he told Ned and Peter, who shared a look and shrugged. 

“There’s a reason we know better than to talk shit,” Ned told him.

“You’re joking,” Flash said to her. “Right, MJ? MJ? Michelle?”

MJ held up her phone and gave him a little smirk. “Hope you can handle your liquor, bitches.”

They were well into their third round of drinks when Channing began to prowl the area restlessly. “So what’s next, Petey?”

“Well, ah. There’s dinner,” Peter said, trying not to bristle at the nickname. Maybe he wouldn’t mind from one of his friends, but Channing and Bentley were dicks and loved to remind Peter of how broke he was versus how rich they were. “And a tour--”

“Harry Osborn?”

They turned to see a guy in a slick suit and sunglasses, hands folded in front of him. “The Fun-Vee is waiting outside to take you to the real party.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Flash exclaimed, jumping over the back of the sofa to sit beside Peter with an arm around him. “Knew you’d get Stark in on it.”

“I--” Peter trailed off, because, well, how could he really feign surprise and ignorance. Sure, he’d asked Mister Stark not to get involved, but Peter also knew him better than a lot of other people.

Sighing, he trailed the others down to the street.

The “Fun-Vee” turned out to be a stretch hummer. Inside was a psychedelic nightmare of neon green, purple, and pink under blacklight. Peter couldn’t imagine Mister Stark owning anything at all like it, which must mean that he’d purchased it specifically for the evening, and in this colour scheme just to give Peter a headache.

MJ had already popped open some Cristal and was again drinking straight from the bottle, while Flash rifled through the mini-bar. “There are glasses, you know,” Bentley told her snidely.

“Oh, did you want some, too?” MJ said, waggling her brows, and proceeded to take another swig.

“Dinner at Jean Georges, followed by a private balcony at Hamilton,” the driver announced, before closing the door behind Ned.

“Dude!” Ned exclaimed, grabbing a headset off the side table. “This is one of the new Stark tech VR sets!” He and Flash began to bicker over which of them got to try it first. 

Well. Mister Stark probably had a better idea of what constituted the perfect bachelor party anyway. And Peter would kill to see Hamilton. Still, they were going to have to have another talk about boundaries sometime in the near future.

“Hey, you know what would be really awesome?” Channing said. “I’ve always wanted to go to a dive bar. I mean, like the real deal, like you see in movies.”

Peter gave him a bewildered look. First the bachelor party wasn’t swanky enough for him, and now he wanted a dive? These assholes were never pleased. But then Harry got a speculative look about him and said, “Well, if it’s gonna be my last night as a single man, I might as well go someplace Mary Jane would never set foot.”

Peter immediately thought of Sister Margaret’s. While he’d never been there as Peter Parker, Spider-Man had made a couple of visits while working with Deadpool. And between his brief impression and the stories he'd heard from Wade about the wacky hijinks that took place, it definitely constituted as a dive. If nothing else, it was the sort of request that Peter was uniquely qualified to fulfill. Of course, Harry Osborn and his rich buddies wouldn’t know what to do with a place like Sister Margaret’s.

“The night is young,” was all he said. Certainly they’d be distracted by what Mister Stark had in store. “Let’s see where it takes us.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter had a splitting headache. That, and the bright light, was the first thing he noticed. Usually that kind of headache was the result of an injury. Downside of super healing and his metabolism was not being able to get drunk. Upside of that was not getting hangovers. This felt like retribution for the all the times he’d douchily lorded that fact over his friends.

“What the fuck?” he groaned, and Jesus, what had died in his mouth? His tongue was sticky and cottony, and tasted like hot garbage. Also, there were feathers. Peter spat them out as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He opened his eyes and just stared.

The room was palatial, pale grey walls hung in modern art, walnut flooring covered in a plush, silver rug. Across the stretch of the room was a giant window with a multi-million dollar view let in through the drawn curtains. 

Peter turned to take in the rest of the truly, outrageously huge bed in which he lay, following the trail of lime green feathers that resolved into the shape of a boa, draped across a sleeping Harry, who was clad in sparkling teal boyshorts and butterfly pasties, and a pair of thigh high black pleather boots. On the far side of the bed was Ned, wrapped up in a long swath of crimson silk around his body like a ribbon on a present.

Before he really had time to process all of that, Peter’s stomach lurched violently. Hungover or not, his reflexes didn’t let him down. Almost on autopilot he rose from the bed and made it to the door across the room in a couple of seconds, and found it thankfully led to the bathroom. He slid across the marble floor on socked feet and flung open the lid of the toilet just in time to be sick.

Once he’d finished, he leaned back against the cabinet to catch his breath, and reached down to the medal around his neck. It had clanged against the porcelain of the toilet, drawing his attention, and now he lifted it up for further scrutiny. At the end of a shimmering blue ribbon was a disk of what looked to be solid gold, with the letters MDO etched in fancy script, and beneath it, _Champion_. The other side didn’t offer any further clues, and Peter released it to thump heavily against his chest.

Across the room, he spotted MJ, sprawled out in the gigantic blue agate geode that had been shaped into a bathtub. In her arms she hugged what appeared to be a taxidermied pig, dressed up in a spider costume, with eight hairy black legs, gigantic googly eyes, and comically large white fangs.

“This is karma,” she told him. “All those times you went around slamming doors and singing off key after a night out.” She gave him a pointed smirk.

“That’s my right, fair and square, as designated driver,” Peter grumbled.

“You don’t even have a license,” MJ groused back. She lifted her sunglasses, that now that Peter got a better look, seemed to be Bentley’s, up on her forehead and squinted at him. “What’s stuck to your face?”

For the first time, Peter became aware of the paper on his cheek. He twisted to look at himself in the gilded mirror that ran the length of the wall above the double sinks, just as Ned came stumbling in. “Oh good. You’re not dead.”

“Um, speak for yourself,” MJ said, lowering her glasses again, cuddling the pig tighter and hunkering down.

“What the fuck?” Peter whispered, as his eyes ran over the words on the scrap of paper. “What the fuck?”

Ned looked up from splashing water on his face at the sink. “What’s up?”

Rather than answering, Peter flung himself through the doorway and sprinted back to the bed. Harry stirred and Peter rifled through the sheets.

“What the hell?” Harry grumbled blearily. He looked down at himself and pinned Peter with a betrayed look. “I said no strippers, Pete. You agreed: no strippers.”

“I wouldn’t--” Peter protested. “I don’t even--”

“On the plus side, it looks like _you_ were the stripper.” MJ followed Peter into the bedroom, still hugging her pig.

“How is that a plus?” Harry demanded, plucking one of the sparkly flower pasties from his nipple. “Jesus, the whole point was avoiding compromising photographs. MJ, give me your phone.”

MJ held up her hands. “I don’t know where it is.”

“What’s with the fucking pig?” Harry asked.

“Isn’t it great?” She gave a genuine smile. “Peter, check it out, it’s Spider-Ham.” She made the pig do a little wiggle, waving some of its extra spidery legs, while humming the Spider-Man theme.

Peter finally found what he was looking for. Another scrap of the paper, torn from the bottom of the one he’d found attached to his face with drool. Peter fit them together, staring at the words in mingled horror and disbelief.

 _The City of New York Office of the City Clerk Marriage License Bureau,_ it read across the top, in dark blue ink. And below, _This Is To Certify That Peter Benjamin Parker Residing at 33 29th St Unit 7F, Queens, NY, Born on August 10, 2001 in New York City, and_

And it just stopped there, where another tear obscured the beginning of the other name. No matter how he searched the sheets, beneath the pillow, under the edge of the bed, Peter couldn’t find any more scraps. He glanced down at his own hand, still in a daze, and noticed the folded origami ring on his left hand.

“Peter?”

Peter actually jumped when Ned laid a hand on his shoulder. Numb and silent, Peter handed the scraps over to him. MJ crowded in to read along. “Douche move,” she remarked. “Getting married the day before your best friend’s wedding.”

“Is that seriously what you’re focusing on?” Peter demanded. “What if I married Ned, or you?” MJ gave him a dubious look at that suggestion. “Oh shit, what if I married _Harry_? Mary Jane will kill me.” He dragged his hand over his face.

Harry dug beneath his body to produce another scrap. “Good news, I don’t own anything at this address.” 

Peter grabbed it out of his hand. There was still no name, but the address was visible. “Yeah, but I don’t know anyone else who could afford a place on Central Park West. Except Mister Stark, I guess. You guys, who the fuck did I marry?”

“Relax,” Ned said, in that calming voice of his that usually worked to soothe Peter’s nerves, but not in this particular moment. “It’s torn in half--that means you’re not married anymore.”

Peter and MJ just stared at him in silence. “That’s not how it works, Ned, what the hell,” Harry said. “What, did you think divorce is just getting together to put your marriage certificate through a shredder?”

“No!” Ned exclaimed, indignant, pulling his silk wrapping tighter around his shoulder. “I just meant...look, New York has all kinds of rules about how long you have to wait to get married after getting a license, and then you have to send it in, and _then_ they send the notarised copy back to you. You can’t just get married overnight. So...if he tore it up instead of sending it in, problem fixed.”

“That actually makes sense,” MJ said, nodding along.

Relief swept through Peter, and he slumped his shoulders as the weight lifted off them. “Oh thank fuck.”

“New problem,” Harry said, raising his hand up over the edge of the bed from the floor, where he’d crouched to look under the bed. “I can’t find my clothes.”

“Why don’t you just grab something from the closet?” Peter asked.

“Well, one, this isn’t my house. And two, and more pertinently, the wedding bands were in my breast pocket.”

“Wait, if this isn’t your place…” Peter trailed off and went to the window. Well, there went that hope. They definitely weren’t anywhere near Central Park. “Uh, could it be Bentley’s? Or Channing’s?”

A series of frantic texts between Harry and Channing and Bentley confirmed it wasn’t their place, either.

“Okay, I vote we get the hell out of here before the owner shows up,” Ned said, raising a meek hand.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry moaned. “Last thing I need is to get arrested for breaking and entering on the morning of my wedding. The press would have a field day.”

The six of them scrambled around, collecting what of their things they could find. A complete sweep of the six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and the two floor library, not to mention the two different kitchens, and handful of other rooms turned up no sign of Harry’s clothes. 

“Also, Flash is missing,” Ned pointed out.

“Flash is a grown man,” Harry said, terse, as they made their way outside.

“That’s debatable,” MJ muttered.

“He can take care of himself, is my point,” Harry shot back. “My wedding rings, on the other hand, aren’t going to find themselves.”

MJ gave him a truly bewildered look. “Can’t you just buy another set, Mister One Percent?”

“Those were my _parent’s_ rings, and my grandparents’ before that, and my great grandparents’ before that.”

“Okay, we get the picture,” MJ said.

Passersby on the street were giving them the side-eye. Possibly due to the fact that none of them was capable of walking in a straight line at the moment. Instead, bleary eyes squinted against the light, they stumbled into each other, trees, and parked cars as Peter ushered them down the street before a neighbour decided to call the police. 

“Does anyone have a metrocard? Or some cash?” Peter patted his own empty pockets in illustration.

Ned, wide-eyed, produced a pouch of white powder from his own pocket. “Guys…” he held it out between them for all to see. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Put that away!” Harry hissed. “What the fuck, that’s like five thousand dollars worth of cocaine.” He looked frantically up and down the street, but no one was around to have heard. He produced his wallet, tucked in the tiny pocket of his tiny shorts. It was stuffed so full of cash, it wouldn’t close.

“I think we know who bought the coke,” MJ said. “That’s gotta be a few thousand worth of hundreds.”

It was enough to cover any transportation needs at the moment anyway, since there was no sign of the Fun-Vee anywhere on the street.

“Look, all we have to do is retrace our steps,” Ned suggested, once Harry had flagged a cab. The driver had seemed slightly dubious about Harry’s look, but it was New York.

“Right. Okay.” Harry drew a deep breath. “I still had it when we left the theatre. Where did we go after that?”

They sat in a long silence, and Peter tried to focus his mind. Having never been drunk, he didn’t really have a point of reference. Usually his friends remembered the night before, even when they were pretty drunk. But no matter how Peter searched through his memory, everything after Hamilton until he woke was blank, like hitting up against a brick wall in his mind.

Everyone else was so focused on Harry’s rings, which, fair enough. But Peter was slightly more worried about what he could have possibly consumed to cause him to become that intoxicated, and also who he’d agreed to marry while in that state. If that’s what happened when he got drunk, it was probably a good thing he normally couldn’t.

As he struggled to remember something--anything--he toyed absently with the paper on his ring finger. With his thumb and index of his right hand, he twisted it back and forth. Then, frowning, pulled it off entirely. Maybe it was some sort of clue? If not to where they’d been, then maybe to who had put it on his finger. Even if it wasn’t a legal marriage, he’d apparently gone through the motions, and someone had made vows of one sort or another to him, while slipping on this ring.

Peter slipped it off and gingerly unfolded it. He couldn’t explain why, exactly, but he wanted to be able to refold it exactly as before when he was finished. It was a receipt dated a few days ago, he realised with a little disappointment, as it gave no hint as to where they’d been last night. It was for an obscene amount of tacos, paid for in cash, apparently with a one thousand dollar bill. Did they even make those anymore?

“Yo,” the driver interrupted their musings. “My girl took me to this place in Chelsea, the Noble Bear? All the servers were wearing those sparkly shorts and them butterfly nip shields and shit.”

Ned brought it up on his phone and held it out for them all to see. “Looks like something called _The Donkey Show_.” Harry made a sound of dismay, covering his face with his hand. 

Peter grabbed for the phone, panicked. Even thoroughly inebriated, there’s no way he would ever willingly view bestiality, right? As he scanned the screen, he heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s okay. Apparently it’s just a version of Midsummer Night’s Dream. Set in a disco.” He numbly handed the phone back to Ned, sagging back into the seat.

“Hey look,” MJ said gleefully, flicking her finger down the screen of the phone. “You’re Cob Web!”

Harry chose to ignore her, instead directing their driver to take them to the Noble Bear, and slipping him a few extra bills to make it fast.


	3. Chapter 3

The Noble Bear looked more like a warehouse than a bar, though the ground outside looked like a unicorn had vomited glitter and confetti everywhere. A brick propped open the front door, and Peter cautiously poked a head inside. “Hello?” he called out. A hand on his back propelled him forward into the darkened club.

It was cavernous inside. Past the box office and coat room, it opened up into a wide open space painted all black, lined in neon lights. They could hear voices coming from the back, and with Peter in the lead, they made their way towards the stage.

“Is anyone there?”

There was a sound of roller skates loud on the wooden floor, and then a face peeked out from between the curtains. “Oh, it’s you!” The woman turned to call over her shoulder, “it’s those guys from last night!”

A chorus of “haaaaaays” greeted them as the curtains were drawn back to reveal several of the cast, in various states of undress, some in little more than glitter and artfully draped satin robes.

“You know us?” Peter asked, almost afraid of their answer.

“Know you?” one of the ladies asked. “Honey, you and your friends stole the show last night.” She gave Ned a conciliatory pat on his back. “You feeling better sweetheart? I don’t think I’ve never actually seen someone go full Exorcist-style with the vomiting before. It was pretty impressive.”

Ned was red up to his hairline and began apologising profusely, but no one was particularly upset over it.

“MJ, right?” an androginous person with a pair of purple fairy wings approached with hands behind their back. 

MJ tilted her head to the side to try to get a glimpse of what they were holding. “Yeah,” she said cautiously.

They presented a hat with a flourish and an excited, “Ta da!” It was a miniature trilby on a headband, made of orange crushed velvet with a sequined zebra print band and a dyed green ostrich plume.

“Uh, thanks.” MJ took it daintily from their hand, flicking a bewildered look in Peter’s direction. “It’s...great.”

They gave her a shy little look from below their lashes. “I just figured, with how you kept badgering Oberon for it last night...well, there are a few extras in the costume room, so.”

MJ perched it daintily atop the head of Spider-Ham and gave them what was, for MJ, a brilliant smile. “I’ll treasure it forever.” They preened at the attention.

A man in costume similar to Harry’s sidled up to Peter, tugging at the front of his shirt, dragging his attention away. “That was quite a performance you put on last night, on the bar. You’ve got some serious upper body strength, all those tricks you were doing hanging from the rafters. I’m not sure if Mady wanted to cast you in the show, or just marry you and keep you as her little boy toy forever.”

“Does Mady live on Central Park West?” Peter asked.

The cast burst into laughter. “Uh, this is Off-Broadway, baby,” the girl with black nipple tassels told him. “She’s up in Inwood.”

Harry pushed Peter aside and gave the room at large a winning smile. “Look, we’re really sorry to bother you all again, but it seems as though I borrowed one of your costumes last night, and I was hoping to exchange it for my own clothing.”

“I think it’s around here somewhere,” said a man in leather chaps and vest. “But it’s a mess, after the scary guy in the Spider-Man suit sprayed you with five hundred dollars worth of champagne.”

They all exchanged concerned looks at that drop of information, but Harry quickly smoothed past it. “I’m sure it’ll dry clean nicely.”

In the meantime, someone fished out a blue and red tracksuit for him to don, in exchange for the costume he’d been wearing, and then someone came back with his several thousand dollar suit wadded up in a Duane Reade bag. Harry made a sound of relief, seizing it and fished through the pockets until he came up with the ring box. When he flipped it open, his face fell.

“What?” Peter crowded up to his shoulder.

Harry turned the box for Peter to see. The daintier of the two bands was still in place, but the other, meant for Harry, was missing. They enlisted the help of the cast, and spent the next half hour or so crawling around on the sticky floor, searching every nook and cranny of the club with no sign of it.

“You must have lost it somewhere else along the way,” Ned said, and Peter didn’t have the heart to tell him how unhelpful that was, all things considered. Harry’s face said enough, anyway.

The cast were equally clueless, when Peter posed the question to them. “No idea where you headed after,” Nipple Tassels told them. “Maybe your friend might know? I think he’s still crashed in the back.”

“Our friend? Oh, Flash!” Ned exclaimed. “Words I never thought I’d say together like that.”

“No, no,” said Leather Chaps, with a pinched sort of look on his face. “The asshole who kept insisting he knew the owner? Yeah, I don’t know where he is. I meant the other one. Your hot friend.”

A couple of the fairies dutifully went to retrieve him, and returned instead with a different familiar face. In denim cutoffs that showed a hint of cheek and glittering red and orange flames up his arms and chest, striking against the black of his skin, gliding across the floor in his own pair of roller skates.

“Johnny?”

“Pete!” Johnny did a little circle around him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry asked. The general animosity between the two of them befuddled Peter, and was the reason he had very pointedly not included Johnny when planning the bachelor party.

Johnny spread his arms wide. “No idea. Last thing I remember was running into you guys getting into that ah-may-zing Hummer on 8th Ave, and MJ popping bottles of Cristal like they were dollar store party favours.”

MJ shrugged. “With Stark, they basically are.”

After exchanging numbers with plenty of the cast and promising to come again soon, they made their way back outside. The sunlight had a sort of piercing quality that was driving sharp spikes of pain through Peter’s skull. Maybe he had been the dick, all those times he’d tormented his friends the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

“Coffee,” Ned moaned, eyes fixed on the shop across the street. Peter had to admit, that sounded really fucking good right now.

The sign read _Foam Party_ and from appearances, it lived up to its name. When they walked (and rolled) through the front door, it was to find two employees mopping up a very serious overflow of rainbow foam. At the sound of the bell ringing, their heads shot up, and if looks could kill, Peter and all his friends would be dead.

They placed their orders and stood at the end of the counter waiting for them to be made. Peter sent another text to Flash, but his first remained unread. Knowing Flash he’d dipped after the club and was sleeping it off with someone he’d picked up there. At least someone might have enjoyed their evening.

“I don’t get it,” he said, in a low voice just for them. He felt like he was on the verge of having some sort of crisis, if only he weren’t too tired and hungover to muster the energy for it. “I apparently got so drunk that I put on my suit? And where is it now? Did I just drunkenly trash my secret identity?”

Ned considered this with a furrowed brow. “How’d you even get drunk in the first place?”

“I don’t know!” Peter wailed quietly. “And I’m apparently a scary drunk.”

A woman with a harried look about her and a nametag that labeled her as the manager called Sheila, bore down upon them. “The name is a play on words,” Sheila told them, very sternly.

At their chorus of confused sounds, Sheila whipped out her phone. “Foam Party,” she said. “It isn’t literal.” She flipped the phone around for them to see as she played a video. 

In it, MJ and Ned were using the “Line Starts Here” sign as a limbo pole, while Johnny skated under with a boombox under one arm and an actual foam machine under the other, spilling everywhere to the tune of “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” And Peter, obligingly, poured it all over Johnny’s chest, where it immediately turned liquid from the heat, running in caramel rivulets over his muscles. Harry climbed over the counter and came back triumphant with a can of whipped cream, which he used to make decorative rosettes over Johnny’s nipples and navel.

Silently, Harry took out his wallet and began rifling through the currency. “We’re all very sorry for the mess. I hope this is enough to cover it.”

Shelia took the cash, mollified. She pocketed it, and then produced another cellphone from her apron. MJ lit up, gratefully taking it when Shelia held it out. “You can take your drinks to go,” she said.

They all crowded together around MJ, looking over her shoulder as she unlocked the screen and went to her gallery. Quickly any anticipation turned to disappointment. The photos were a series out of focus shots of MJ’s face, where she clearly hadn’t realised she had her camera in selfie mode. There were roughly a ton of photos of the spidey-pig in various poses and locations, though none descript enough to give a hint of where they were.

“Wait!” Ned jabbed his finger at the screen. “Go back, go back!” 

MJ dutifully swiped back a few photos. “There!” Harry cried out, spotting it too.

Peter squinted. In the background was a blurry neon outline of Marilyn Monroe in her iconic pose, with her skirt blown up by the grate. Above that was a sign reading _The Seven Beer Switch._


	4. Chapter 4

It was just after two when they arrived at the bar. Peter wasn’t expecting to find it as busy as it was for the time of day. He felt a bit more human after throwing back his coffee and mooching off MJ’s, and that was with his super metabolism and healing. How the hell were there people interested in drinking beer at this hour, even if it was served by waiters dressed as different variations of Marilyn Monroe?

No one had turned in a wedding band, which was no surprise to any of them, but Peter wasn’t about to rain on Harry’s parade. Johnny, who had apparently decided to trail along just for the lulz, ordered himself a beer, then pulled a face. Then loudly announced to the room that it was warm and flat, and tasted like piss. Peter was reminded why he hated going anywhere with Johnny.

They peeked around the booths and the floor under the bar for the ring, but it was actually a really small space. While a steady flow of traffic came in through the front door, it didn’t seem to get crowded. Peter watched for a few minutes, really paying attention, and finally noticed that many of the customers went to the bathroom, only to not return.

Curious, Peter followed the trail down a hallway, knocked on the unisex bathroom door, and opened it to find nothing remarkable about it. Just a plain, white tile room with a toilet and urinal and sink.

“I think this is an actual fax speakeasy,” MJ said, when Peter returned with this information.

“No shit!” Ned gasped, like a kid in a candy store. “I’ve always wanted to go to one of those, Peter, how do we get in?”

Peter shrugged helplessly, but Harry was already pulling out his wallet and waving over a waiter in the iconic pink satin number from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. He somehow managed to make it work, even with his bushy handlebar moustache and wire-rimmed glasses. “There’s a hundred bucks in it for you if you tell us how to get in the back.”

“You don’t remember?” The waiter asked, as he took the money and folded it neatly, then took out his phone from a little pocket in the bow on his dress. “Night shift has been sending this video around.”

On the screen, Ned, Harry, and MJ were crowded together on the stage, singing a vintage, big band-style cover of _Sweet Caroline_. Behind them, the jazz quartet played along. Johnny had hijacked the drums. Honestly it wasn’t a bad cover, all things considered.

“It’s probably on youtube by now,” the waiter said. “Harry Osborn and the Human Torch crashing the live set at a speakeasy?”

“At least it was before _The Donkey Show_ ,” Peter said hopefully to Harry, who in the video was still wearing his suit.

“Last night is a little hazy,” Harry said. He peeled a few more bills and passed them to the waiter. “Maybe you could help refresh our memory?”

The waiter took it and glanced pointedly at the placard above the bar. “It’s in the name,” he said.

Peter frowned after him. “Seven Beer Switch,” he mumbled.

“Ooookaaaay,” MJ said. “So...can we order seven beers?”

Their waiter drifted off towards the bar with a sway in his step and began to fill up one pint after another of the warm, flat piss beer and line them up on his serving tray, until he reached seven. Then he returned with his heavy load and laid them out on the table. They watched him expectantly, and after a pause, Harry said, “Well?”

“You gonna drink those?”

“We have to drink all seven?” Peter whispered.

If a face could turn green, it was Ned’s right now. MJ made a vomiting sound and held a hand over her mouth. “You couldn’t pay me.”

“Peter,” Harry said, in a low, urgent voice. “You gotta take one for the team, man. With your...tolerance.”

“Ya gotta, Peter,” MJ said, with way too much fucking glee. Yeah, Peter was definitely paying for all his sober douchebaggery in the past. “Ya gotta.” She made Spider-Ham do a little dance and faked a voice for him. “Get that bread!”

“What about Johnny’s tolerance?” Peter said petulantly.

“I have no horse in this race, bro,” Johnny said.

“You are the worst friend,” Peter told him bitterly, and picked up the first glass.

The first couple weren’t so bad. Peter chugged them down as quickly as he could, and he almost couldn’t taste much. But by the third, each swallow was settling sour in his stomach, and the bitter, hoppy aftertaste made him gag before bringing the rim of the cup to his lips. 

“Wait,” MJ said, as he reached for the sixth one. He was feeling a little lightheaded, whether as a result of last night’s indulgence, or maybe how quickly he’d drank them, and was happy for the excuse to take a break. She aimed her phone at him. “I wanna record this for posterity.”

“I changed my mind,” Peter said. “ _You_ are the worst friend.”

“Oh, hang on,” MJ said. She skimmed through something on her phone. “I have a voice memo from last night.” She laid the phone on the table top and tapped the play button.

“After you pull the coat hook, don’t forget:” Peter’s voice slurred, “the password is _Zelda Zonk_.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter demanded.

MJ gave him a defensive shrug. “How the fuck was I supposed to know you made a voice memo, who even does that?”

“Yeah.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “Cause you’d never make me chug all those on purpose.”

In the bathroom, they pulled on the coat hook as instructed, and gave the password when a portion of the wall slid back to reveal a pair of eyes. The hidden door swung open for them part way, and then suddenly started to close again before they could enter. “Not you guys again!”

Peter shoved his foot in the opening before it could close completely. “Wait, please! We just need to see if we left something here.”

“Uh, what you left?” the woman demanded. “You mean _besides_ the broken tap and 2 standing inches of craft beer.” She shot MJ a look over his shoulders. “Never mind how long it took to deconstruct Chair Henge.”

Harry wrestled his way to the front, producing another wad of bills from his pocket, and they were begrudgingly allowed inside. 

Under any other circumstance, Peter would have found it pretty impressive. It was like stepping back in time, with all the polished wood and bronze accents, the warm, dim lighting, and the plush leather cushions on the benches and chairs. One wall was covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves, the rest were exposed brick that was probably a couple hundred years old.

Even though drinking didn’t have an effect on him, Peter did enjoy some of the flavours, and the list of prohibition style cocktails were decidedly more appetising than the beer they were serving outside. The people milling around didn’t even look out of place, with their clothes and hair in the style of the era.

A beautiful copper bathtub sat on a raised dias at one end of the room, shining in the light. There were black scorch marks all along the bottom, and a worker was scrubbing at them. 

“What the hell do you want?” the bartender asked, slinging a towel over his shoulder and bracing his hands on the top of the bar. “Didn’t you do enough damage last night?”

“Is this about the tap?” Harry asked, sighing, already reaching for his wallet.

“The beer was easy enough to clean up--if expensive,” the bartender said and jabbed a finger in Peter’s direction. “You ruining a whole batch of our gin by making out in it with that weirdo in the Spidey suit, and you,” he pointed at Ned, “trying to turn it into your ‘beer-nut stew,’ on the other hand…”

The guy cleaning the tub spoke up gave Johnny a venomous look. “You don’t use fire on _copper_.”

“My bad.” Johnny didn’t sound particularly sorry.

“Who makes literal bathtub gin in the middle of a club, anyway?” MJ scoffed.

“Who carries around a dead pig and makes it talk like a puppet?” the bartender shot back. “You were freaking out all of the customers.”

“Clearly you need cooler clientele.”

“Clearly,” the bartender parroted back, “you all need a higher tolerance, or to lay off the sauce.”

“I don’t normally get that drunk,” Ned said, by way of an apology.

“Wait, I wasn’t the one in the suit?” Peter asked, unable to focus on much beyond the relief.

“Let’s just focus,” Harry said. “Did you happen to notice a ring?”

The bartender gave him a look, like he couldn’t seriously believe Harry was asking that question. “Unless you mean the ring of vomit your friend left all over our antique rug there.”

Ned covered his face with both hands. “I’m so sorry--can I help?”

“Yeah, we had enough of your help last night,” the cleaner snapped. “Rubbing it with a brush just makes it worse.”

“Hey!” MJ called, from where she was searching a booth across the club. She held up a business card between her fingers. “No ring, but this could be a clue.”

The front was pretty generic, but when she flipped it over for them to see, that was Peter’s own handwriting on the back. _7th Floor, Office 11A_.

“Great,” Harry said. He checked his watch. “I have to be at the library in three hours, or MJ’s gonna kill me.”

Peter turned back to the bartender. “This guy, in the suit, it wasn’t one of us?” The bartender shook his head. “Was he kind of short and skinny and obnoxious?” 

“You think you made out with Flash?” MJ didn’t bother hiding her mirth at the suggestion.

“Nah, he was a big guy--over six feet and built like a brick shit house.”

“Peter.” Harry tapped his foot impatiently. “We’ve got more important things than finding your hookup from last night.”

Because he wasn’t a horrible friend, Peter had to admit that Harry’s issue took priority. And at least it ruled out Channing and Bentley, who were both tall, but more the slender types than muscular. One less thing to worry about, then, because honestly not much could be worse than marrying those assholes.


	5. Chapter 5

The address was a nondescript office building on a side street in Tribeca. Just brick and darkened windows reflecting the sunlight, unremarkable except for cop cars lining the street and the crime tape on the entrance. And the busted out window on what looked to be the seventh floor, plastic sheeting billowing in the wind.

“I can’t be here,” Ned muttered, patting his pocket. “Peter, what can I do with this stuff? Should I just throw it in the trash? I’ll just throw it in the trash!”

“Would you calm the fuck down,” Harry hissed. “There’s no reason for them to suspect you of anything, unless you act like an idiot.”

“Uh, we have the Human Torch here, sticking out like a mostly naked superhero in roller skates,” Ned whispered back.

“Johnny has been caught on cameras doing far worse,” Peter said.

Johnny shrugged. It was really fascinating how the glittery flames had been painted just right that they moved with the natural motion of his skin, sparkling in the sunlight. “It’s true,” he said. “Check it.” He pushed off, gliding across the pavement towards the crowd of police gathered.

“I’m just gonna…” Peter hurried after him, because letting Johnny run around unchaperoned was never a good idea. Sue was _still_ salty over the whole Invisible _Girl_ thing; it had taken years for Woman to catch on in its place. Besides, it wasn’t strange for Peter to poke around a crime scene. People on the force sort of knew him, with as often as he showed up to photograph after various super battles around town.

The police were already laughing uproariously at something Johnny had said. “Better watch out,” one of them said, as Peter approached. “Papzz is here.”

“Ha ha,” Peter said dryly, and held up both hands. “No camera, see. Though it looks like maybe I missed the excitement.”

“I was _just_ about to offer my assistance, if it’s needed,” Johnny said, with a winning grin and wink directed at one cop in particular who was looking a bit dazed by his appearance. 

“Nothing that needs the attention of Johnny Storm.” That was a familiar voice that made the hair on Peter’s neck stand on end. Yuri made her way through the group, which broke up at her approach, the officers scattering in an attempt to look busy. “Or the Bugle, for that matter.”

Peter gave her a nervous smile and nodded, angling his body behind Johnny like a shield. It was an incredibly rare instance when he saw Yuri in public out of costume, and this was the only time she’d ever spoken to him. He’d never really made an attempt to conceal his voice as Spider-Man. But if she’d come down, something pretty serious had to have happened last night.

Johnny cast a curious look back at Peter and then to Yuri, and he turned on his charm. “Captain,” he said, tone as smooth as silk. “You can trust the Human Torch. And I vouch for Peter here. He’s one of my closest friends, even if he is a member of the press.” Peter rolled his eyes, but he was thankful nonetheless.

Yuri sighed, one hand lifted to rub at her temples. “To be honest, we don’t know exactly what _did_ happen. Got a call about an elevator full of blood, “like something out of _The Shining_ ” was the quote from the cleaning staff. They found a bunch of severed hands in an office on the seventh floor. A couple sets of prints came back as known drug dealers, one of whom showed up at St. Luke’s last night, sans hand. So far he’s not talking. And I have to assume at least one belongs to the owner of the lease, who’s missing. Found some fishy stuff in their books, but it’s going to take a while for us to unravel it.”

Johnny let out a long, low whistle. “Well, I don’t envy you there. But you’re right--sounds like it doesn’t have anything to do with us.” 

“Just like you superhero types,” Yuri said, without any real heat behind it. “Leave all the messy stuff to us.”

Peter wanted to be affronted, because he helped Yuri with the messy stuff _all the time_. But unless he wanted to give up his identity, there wasn’t any point in arguing with her. He let Johnny lead him off, as he promised Yuri he’d be back to help if one of the hands turned out to be Von Doom’s.

“But it could have something to do with us,” Harry pointed out, when they relayed the story. “If you and Peter decided to engage in some vigilante justice last night.”

“I promise your fucking ring isn’t up there,” Johnny said. “Captain Watanabe would have already called by now if she’d found a precious Osborn family heirloom at the scene of her crime.” 

Ned waved his phone at them excitedly. “I was looking around to see what businesses are nearby, and check this out--there’s a studio in Soho that teaches aerial silk classes--I think that’s what this is!” He tugged on his crimson wrapper. “Look at the photos on Google.” He flipped the phone around to show them a series of shots from various students, all hanging from fabric of the same shade.”

Harry gave a sigh and a shake of his head. “It’s as good a lead as any, at this point.”

It was only a few blocks away, so they walked. Peter was feeling better as the day wore on--physically, anyway. Whatever was in his system must have mostly burnt off by now. His mind, however, was a fucking mess. What if he had been involved with whatever had happened in Tribeca? Harry wasn’t wrong. It wouldn’t be out of character for Peter to jump in if he saw something shady going down. Why else would he have written down the address?

As they walked he was on the lookout for cameras that might have caught them last night. Weirdly, those that he did notice all looked to be broken, offline, or pointed in the wrong direction. Experience made Peter suspicious of their good luck. 

The studio looked like it had been hit by a tornado. One of the front windows was shattered, spilling out onto the sidewalk, and inside was all splintered wood of chairs and tables, scorched and shredded ribbons of silk, and trails of blood. And it smelled like burning hair, corn nuts, tequila, and vomit.

“You have a lot of nerve.”

“This? Again?” Harry said, wary.

Peter turned to see a woman with a red afro and matching leotard standing on the stage, arms crossed to show off her impressive biceps. “I see you lost your psychopathic, Spider-Man wannabee boyfriend. ‘D like to know why it had to be _my_ business you brought your fight to.”

“Spider-Man was with us?” Peter asked.

She frowned at him. “Well, the Times Square knock off version of him. If Spider-Man had guns and used swords. Don’t know how you could forget, with how handsy the two of you were being with each other.”

All the air left Peter’s lungs at once, but none of the others seemed to notice.

“Hey Ned, think fast!” MJ and Harry were poking around by the parallel bars. She threw something across the room in a blur, hitting Ned square in the chest, showering him in white powder. He blinked, lashes coated in a thin dusting, and reached up to wipe it from his face.

“Oh thank god.” Ned heaved a sigh of relief, clutching the bag she’d thrown to his chest, and producing an identical one from his pocket. “It’s gymnasts chalk.”

The woman strode over to grab both pouches from him. “So you stole from me, too? You know, I was almost impressed by how well you did on the silks last night, until you got halfway up and spewed vomit all over the place.”

Cue Ned’s fumbling apologies and Harry’s magic wallet with its never ending flow of cash to smooth over all the damage they’d done the night before. Only Peter wasn’t really hearing any of it. Something else from last night was filtering in, through the haze of alcohol. Something Harry had said, about wanting to visit a dive bar. That, plus everyone talking about Spider-Man, and bloody elevator and bodyless hands.

Johnny skated over to bump hips with Peter. “What’s with the long face? Sad you can’t recall last night’s thrilling events?” he asked. “Most fun I don’t remember having in a long time.”

“Someone who looked like a knockoff version of Spider-Man,” Peter echoed.

“What’s that?” Johnny arched one brow.

“I think I know another place we went last night,” Peter said louder, addressing the room at large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such the long wait. I was 100% I posted this chapter the day after election because it was already finished and I wanted to put up some stuff to help carry people over while dealing with my anxiety, lol. Guess I must have forgot to hit submit or something, ack! Just a few chapters left of this silly little thing!


	6. Chapter 6

Peter had only ever briefly visited Sister Margaret’s, and then only ever as Spider-Man. The exterior looked more like an abandoned institution where horrible things had taken place under the guise of charity for those less fortunate, from the menacing facade to the bars on the darkened windows to the heavy duty security door on the gate that served as the entrance. 

And the interior wasn’t much better, with the perpetually sticky floor no matter how often Dopinder mopped. The peeling vinyl of the seats managed to poke you no matter how you sat. One time, when Peter had been desperate enough to even _think_ of using the bathroom, he’d noped right out when he’d seen the shower curtain in lieu of a door.

The details Wade gave had always struck Peter as too trashy to be true--stories of the regulars, nightly bar brawls, and preposterously named shots served up by Weasel of all people. Who would trust him to make their drinks? It was the perfect place to fill Harry’s request, and in his altered state of mind, Peter might just have been insane enough to take them there.

It was getting close to four by the time they arrived. The wedding was supposed to start at seven, and if Harry didn’t show up by five, Mary Jane was going to start asking questions. Peter didn’t want to have to be the one to explain the situation to her. She scared him--not that she wasn’t a perfectly nice person, but she was almost _too_ perfectly nice, and he wasn’t about to take the blame for ruining her perfectly nice wedding.

“Well.” Harry took the place in, a grim expression on his face. “I did say I wanted a dive.”

As soon as they walked in they saw, in a place of honour on the wall by the jukebox, the missing pieces of the marriage certificate framed in gold. Alongside it was an engraved plaque that read “proof that there’s at least one idiot out there crazy enough to marry Wade Wilson.”

Johnny found this inordinately hilarious, maybe because he was the only other one to recognise the name. He did little figure eights around Peter, cackling madly. “Oh man, I can’t wait to tell everyone. You’re all always going on about how Johnny’s the irresponsible one, Johnny wrecked his motorcycle into Stark’s pool, Johnny melted off Lady Liberty’s flame. Yeah, well, _Peter_ got married to _Deadpool_!”

“Hey!” Weasel shouted, coming out from around the bar to snap at Johnny with his dish towel. “This is a bar, not a roller rink, Johnny Storm. Christ, how your gang of feral twinks managed to do more damage in one night than my regular clientele composed of mercs and assassins have _ever_ done is beyond me, but so help me god, you will remove them and yourself at once or I’m opening a pop up event in the lobby of the Baxter Building and invite all of AIM.”

Harry started to go for his wallet, but Peter caught his arm. “Don’t give him your money, he’ll only use it for evil.”

Weasel narrowed his eyes at Peter. “Do I fucking know you?”

“Sure you do, Weas,” a familiar voice said, and then an even more familiar arm slung over Peter’s shoulder. It wasn’t dressed in its normal red leather, but the weight of it, the position, the difference in their heights, that was all so deeply entrenched in Peter’s sense-memory from countless nights working together. “He’s the crazy idiot who married me!”

“This is Deadpool?” Ned asked, the pitch of his voice reaching heights previously unheard since puberty. The rest were eying him with varying degrees of disbelief and barely disguised horror. Wade out of his suit could be a lot to digest the first time, even Peter had been taken aback by the extent of his scars, and that was with prior knowledge of their existence. But the amount of times Peter had seen him shoving greasy street food into his mouth had inured him to the sight by now.

And sure, they’d maybe heard Peter mention him, since _Spider-Man_ knew Deadpool, but Wade did _not_ know Peter Parker, and he was too paralysed by panic to think of a response. Johnny, unhelpfully, was losing his damn mind. He might actually pass out from laughing too hard, and Peter, for one, was not at all concerned at the prospect.

Seeing his impending panic attack, Harry went for reassuring. “It’s okay, Pete. You can’t get married in one night in New York, remember? You have to wait twenty-four hours, unless you’ve got a judicial waiver.”

“Meet my judicial waiver!” Wade exclaimed, producing a blade from somewhere on his person. Not all that unusual for him, but out of the suit, Peter was less certain about where he’d been storing it. Wade turned the blade so it caught the light, and there they could all read, etched into the steel, _judicial waiver_.

“Is this guy serious?” MJ breathed low in Peter’s ear.

Wade chuckled as he tucked the blade away again. “Nah,” he said, and some of the tension left Peter’s shoulders, at least briefly. Before Wade opened his mouth again. “The _steel_ didn’t give me special dispensation to file our wedding certificate. Buuuuuut, it did help the judge to see things my way. Thankfully it was already notarized and filed before those twat waffles tore it up in itty bitty pieces. But don’t worry, babe.” This he directed at Peter, booping him on the tip of his nose, and his voice dropped half an octave as he added, “I tore _them_ up into itty bitty pieces.”

“How the hell did you get it notarised and filed in the middle of the night?” MJ asked, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, the very picture of suspicious disbelief.

“This is New York City, tyvm,” Wade said. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve used the services of an all night notary.”

“Shots for the happy couple and the wedding party,” Weasel announced, without a single hint of excitement or indeed any inflection to his words. He plopped them down on the bar and gave Wade an insincere smile. “Of which I was not a part, because why would I be? Only been the one who’s supported every other horrible life choice you’ve made. Definitely doesn’t warrant a wedding invite.”

“It was spur of the moment,” Wade said. He waved a hand in Peter’s direction, as if it explained something. “I had to lock this down before he came to his senses.”

Harry suddenly broke his stunned silence, turning on Peter. “I better have been your best man.”

Peter’s jaw dropped open, and he was ready to be indignant that _this_ was what Harry was focusing on, when MJ interrupted. “No way, Peter, you promised _I_ could be your best man!”

“You promised her?” Ned asked, eyes wide and imploring. “I feel like I should have been part of any discussion about future nuptials--as your best friend, it only makes sense--”

“Wait a fucking minute,” Harry interrupted. “Who said you were his best friend? And anyway, he’s _my_ best man, it only makes sense that I get to be his.”

“That’s not how it works!”

“I didn’t promise anyone,” Peter said, giving MJ a vicious look. She just gave him a little smirk and waggle of her tongue against her teeth, pleased at her own shit-stirring. “I didn’t plan on getting married like, ever. I’m not a billionaire.”

Harry and Ned weren’t ready to give up that easily. “So which of us was it?” Harry demanded of Wade.

“Clearly it was me,” Johnny interjected, still chuckling too much to be taken seriously. “We have a special bond the rest of you can’t understand.”

Ned gave him a sour look, then turned to Harry. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not his best friend, too, but Peter and I have shared things--”

“Oh, I see,” MJ drawled, apparently not content to sit back and watch when she could continue to agitate. “Is the thing you share dicks? Is that why I can’t be best man? That’s some patriarchal bullshit.”

“I _like_ you,” Wade told her, fervent and sincere, and it was like Peter saw his whole life flash before his eyes in that instant. “But alas, the answer is D: none of the above.” He whipped out his phone and flipped it around for all of them to see.

There they stood, in what looked to be a private residence, before a fireplace with a harried woman officiating. Peter and Wade were caught in the middle of a very...enthusiastic-looking kiss. At Wade’s side, MJ was crouched, holding Spider-Ham up like a puppet. They’d fashioned him a little bowtie to wear as he carried out his best man duties, while to Peter’s side stood--

“Flash?” Ned gasped.

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Peter couldn’t really deal with their bickering at the moment, too fixated on the place where his and Wade’s mouths met. And sure, they flirted a lot, because everything out of Wade’s mouth was innuendo and Peter couldn’t help himself. And Wade hadn’t made his interest in Spider-Man a secret. But there were also plenty of reasons it had never gone beyond flirting...things like elevators of blood and severed hands, all the way down to Peter’s secret identity.

Yet the Peter in the picture clearly didn’t have any qualms about taking things much, much further. His fingers were twined through the straps of Wade’s katana, one leg lifted around Wade’s hip like he was trying to climb him. Wade’s hand was tangled in Peter’s hair, tilting his head just so. And Peter….Peter was startled to find that he was disappointed he couldn’t remember it.

Johnny, who’d finally managed to stop laughing like a maniac, seized the phone out of Wade’s hand. “I am sending this to everyone we know,” he said, and began flipping through the series of photos from last night. More of the “wedding,” with Peter grinning like it was the happiest day of his life and Flash crying in joy as he presented him with the ring to slide on Wade’s finger.

“Wait!” Peter grabbed for Wade’s hand, who made a cooing sound and obligingly linked their fingers together. “No, look.” He lifted their linked hands, turning them so Wade’s was on top. There, on his ring finger, too small to make it past the second knuckle, was Harry’s grandfather’s ring.

Relief warred with concern on Harry’s face. He approached Wade cautiously, like he might lose a hand for asking for it back. “Uh...I’m sorry, do I call you Deadpool? Mister Pool?”

“Wade Wilson. For the moment. I’m not sure how we’re doing the last name thing? Wade Parker? I mean, I’d miss the alliteration, and we wouldn’t want Petey to lose his, either. Wade Wilson-Parker? Peter Parker-Wilson?” Wade looked in questioning to Peter, who could not think of a single response.

“Mister Wilson.” Harry gave him a winning smile, the one that had served him so well as the youngest CEO of Oscorp. “I’m afraid that ring you’re wearing was given to you by mistake. You see, I’m supposed to be getting married this afternoon as well, and that’s my ring. And I’m sure you understand, having now experienced the joy of marriage for yourself, how important it is that everything go smoothly at the wedding.”

Wade arched one hairless brow. “You want my wedding ring?” For a tense moment, Peter wondered if he was going to have to give up his identity to everyone in Sister Margaret’s to protect Harry. Harry took a step back, eyes flicking to Peter and back again. But then Wade relaxed and gave a brilliant smile. “I’m just fucking with ya.” He slid the ring off and dropped it in Harry’s hand. 

“Thanks,” Harry breathed, hoarse.

“I need to get us a matching set anyway.” Wade took Peter’s left hand, rubbing his thumb over the refolded origami ring there. The delicate drag of scarred flesh over Peter’s finger made his skin tingle in a way that was shockingly nice. “Didn’t think I was gonna leave you with that, didja?”

Peter snatched back both his hands, clasping the right protectively over the left to his chest. He stared up at Wade, feeling trapped. “I don’t need a ring. You shouldn’t buy us rings.”

Wade tilted his head to the side. “Tattoos instead? Might be tricky with the healing factor…”

Harry clapped Peter on the shoulder and gave a little squeeze that would have probably hurt if Peter didn’t have his powers. “Gotta get to Bryant Park before my wife-to-be puts in a missing persons report.” He gave Peter a funny sort of smile then turned to Wade. “You should come, too. Only right, that my best man’s husband be there.”


End file.
